


An Affinity for Elf Culture

by Bella_Dahlia



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Abuse of Christmas Movie Quotes, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Attacks, Awesome Clint Barton, Awesome Frigga (Marvel), Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Christmas Fluff, Deaf Clint Barton, Fluff and Angst, Innuendo, M/M, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Protective Natasha Romanov, Protective Steve Rogers, This could take place in the same universe as Elf?, War Veteran Bucky Barnes, sure why not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:55:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28221279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bella_Dahlia/pseuds/Bella_Dahlia
Summary: When Bucky Barnes was told he would be doing press and community outreach as part of his prosthetic program, no one mentioned to him it would involve dressing up like an Elf from the North Pole.The hella cute blonde elf in head to toe purple hadn't been brought up either.Hiding in his hoodie wasn't going to be an option, was it?
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Clint Barton
Comments: 17
Kudos: 95
Collections: Winterhawk Wonderland - 2020 edition!





	An Affinity for Elf Culture

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TrekChik](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrekChik/gifts).



> My contribution to the Winterhawk Wonderland 2020, written for TrekChik! I hope you enjoy this dose of Christmas flavored fluff and angst and fluff again for the holidays.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

Bucky Barnes stared with undiluted dread at the monstrosity being held before him. He suddenly understood the overwhelming, stomach churning, hysterical-laughter-through-one’s-pain that was described with encountering a Cosmic Horror. This had to be what HP Lovecraft had in mind.

Maybe the source of his existential terror wasn’t a fur trimmed, sequined bedazzled, jingle belled Santa Hat, but then again, maybe it _was_.

Natasha’s lips twitched, in that charming way she had of hiding a smile. Used to be charming, anyway. Now it was most infuriating, since she always seemed to be smiling at his expense. “It very much appears not,” she said, reaching into the bag the Horror Hat had come from. She pulled out a wad of candy cane striped cloth, allowing it to unfurl to reveal…

“Tights? I draw a fucking line at tights,” Bucky snarled, attempting to slouch further back into the battered couch. Getting the ratty furniture to eat him alive felt like a much safer option than any others being presented to him.

“Not tights,” Natasha told him. “Leggings.”

“Semantics.”

Natasha glanced over her shoulder towards the kitchen. “Rogers?”

Steve poked his head from around the corner, wooden spoon in hand. He gestured with it like a conductor’s baton, and Natasha held up the clothing in question for inspection. 

“Not tights,” he concluded, before disappearing back to dinner.

“Band of Brothers my lily white ass,” Bucky muttered.

“You’re damn right!” Steve hollered back.

Sometime between being a tiny sickly preteen and becoming a practically oversized specimen of peak manhood, Steve had developed ears like a goddamn bat, and Bucky hated it. With no decent retort, he let his head fall back against the couch and scowled up at the ceiling. Being angry and sulking had to be better than admitting he was sort of more than a little bit terrified.

He felt the couch dip when Natasha added her weight, but she didn’t press him further. It was one of her traits that he appreciated most. She always knew when to push and when to pause. Steve felt like it was his God given duty to drag Bucky back into the world, the same way he dragged him out of that rotten hell hole in the desert almost two years ago. For all his good intentions, Steve had trouble recognizing when Bucky was ready to short circuit on anxiety. But Natasha, she knew sometimes the only way forward was to take a break.

Once, not long after he made it back stateside, one arm lighter but emotionally weighed down to the floor, Bucky had asked her about it. About how she could offer support without saying a word. Her green eyes had gone dark and distant, memories he knew she would never share crossing her face when she replied, “I know what it’s like to be unmade.” They didn’t talk about it again, but he always thought of it in moments like these. 

After what felt like a small ice age, but he knew to only be a couple of minutes, Bucky blew out a hard breath. “It’s… not entirely about the outfit.”

“You don’t say.”

He turned his head on the cushion to finally look in Natasha’s direction. “They’re putting me in with kids.”

Her head tilted, eyes dancing with amusement. “You wanna be one of Santa’s elves for an Adults only experience? I’m sure it cuts down on the amount of costume overall, but I’m betting the hat’s still involved.”

“Nat.”

“Buck.” Her voice mimicked his whine, but her hand came down comfortingly on his shoulder. “We knew press and community outreach was part of the deal with getting into the program. That pretty piece you got is almost four months months old. It was gonna start sometime.”

His gaze slid down to the arms folded against his chest, both flesh and mechanical. The prosthetic was unique, by far the most advanced allowed out in public view, but given that it came from the Carbonell Institute that was hardly a surprise. They specialized in morphing next gen tech into disability support and advocacy, ranging from work as high profile as giving a battered army vet a brand new, fully functioning arm, to as low key as designing a new Switch remote to let a wide range of disabilities have access to Animal Crossing. Bucky hadn’t even been home three weeks before they came to him, practically begging for the chance to develop something. It took almost two years, and he threatened to quit at least every other Tuesday, but they finally had a working version.

He still didn’t know why it had to be shiny as hell vibranium, but there was that thing about beggars and choosers and all. 

“There’s gonna be a lot of noise,” Bucky said slowly. “Kids screaming in delight, which has a way of…”

“Of sounding like they’re actually being murdered by rusty chainsaws?” Nat completed. “I concede the point. But it’s only a few Tuesdays, and then Christmas Eve. Four nights. And it’s not like you’ll be alone.”

The kitchen timer dinged, and Steve came out to the living room, still wearing the red, white, and blue frilled apron he always put on for cooking. It was supposed to be a joke gift, but he seemed to take an awful lot of pride in wearing it.

“I could go in with you,” Steve offered.

Bucky gave him a look. “You don’t qualify, punk. Stupid isn’t a disability, just an inconvenience.” 

“I could take off a minor limb,” Natasha suggested, her tone impossible to read. The way she eyed Steve led him to take a small step back towards the kitchen.

“What exactly do you define as a minor limb?” Steve asked. She just shrugged vaguely in response.

“More to the point, I don’t need you going everywhere with me like some nanny,” Bucky said.

Steve’s mouth twisted, the pang of guilt blooming clearly on his face. “Of course you don’t, Buck, I just… There’s nothing wrong with not wanting to shoulder something alone.”

Bucky leaned, grabbing the bag filled with the glittered costume. “Nat’s right. Santa’s got a shit ton of elves, right? I won’t be alone.”

~*~*~

_Holy hell, I wish I was alone,_ Bucky thought, choking back the initial pang of panic.

The Gimbel’s men’s locker room was full of a mix of employees and volunteers; some were in the Elf garb for working the Santa lines, others were regular cashiers and stockers. Gimbel’s Winter Wonderland was a staple of many New York child’s experience, with an elaborate labyrinth of a line cleverly disguised as a fascinating trek through the North Pole all leading up to the big finale of getting to step foot in Santa’s Workshop and have a quick minute with the big man himself. In truth there were actually half a dozen workshops the maze could lead you to, with different Santas stationed in every one around the clock from 10am to 8pm on the days leading up to Christmas, and even with that, they didn’t always get every kid through the line by the end of each night. 

But for the past few years Gimbel’s had also hosted special volunteer nights specifically for kids with disabilities to be able to get their time with Santa too. Nights were the lines could be kept shorter, and quieter; where parents wouldn’t have to worry about people complaining about a wheelchair taking too long to get through the Candy Cane Forest, or staring at their child’s oxygen set up, or any other number of reasons they might be hesitant to come on a regular night.

The addition of volunteers who also had disabilities had come about when the Carbonell Institute started sponsoring the event. It gave them great press, and a decidedly wholesome way to show off their new tech, but it also did give kids the chance to see being different didn’t make them any less useful, and important. Afterall, if Santa’s elves could have Down Syndrome, or be blind, and still help make Christmas happen…

It was a good message, and Bucky was proud to be getting the chance to help deliver it. 

So long as he didn’t keel over from an anxiety attack being around so many strangers, he would be very proud, he was sure.

“Hey, let’s pop the cork, yeah?” The voice behind him made Bucky start, and he turned to be greeted by a warm smile. The smile was attached to a tall, lithe man with clear blue eyes, dark blonde hair that was performing some sort of gravity defying swoop, and then there were the cheekbones.

Lord, the cheekbones.

“She’s bottling up behind me,” the man added, still smiling, but he hooked a thumb behind him. Bucky blinked, suddenly aware of the low grumbling of other people in the hallway.

“Right. Sorry.”

He hastily stepped to the side, shoving his hands deeper into his hoodie’s pockets. The other man moved out of the doorway as well, but rather than moving deeper into the locker room, he took up right next to Bucky. Being so close it was impossible for Bucky to resist glancing over for a second look at the guy. That was when he noticed the hearing aids; designed in a bold, deep purple, they looked more like a fashion piece than anything else.

“New fodder for the holiday retail meat grinder, or are you here for the spawn?” Tall, Blonde, and Beautiful asked.

“The, uh, kids. I’m volunteering,” Bucky replied. The first time in months he meets someone he finds easy on the eyes and he can’t even manage to string three words together cleanly. This was just fabulous.

But if the guy noticed the supreme awkwardness that Bucky felt, he didn't let onto it. His grin managed to widen, his smile seeming to reach all the way to the tips of his hair, and he jerked his head toward a row of lockers. “Of course you are, ya big softy. C’mon, this ain’t my first time in the show. I’m Clint.”

“Bucky.” At least he managed saying his name without tripping over it, that had to count as a win.

Clint came up to a section of lockers and claimed a battered one as if it had his name on it. He dropped a duffel on the bench and immediately began to strip without a care in the world, and Bucky almost swallowed his own tongue. He thought the cheekbones had been bad, but the arms.

_Lord, the arms._

“It can get a little rowdy in here, with the overlap,” Clint said, dropping to the bench to take off his boots. “The regular elves are all released, while the stage crew does some small alterations to the North Pole. Helps to have a partner to watch your six. Back off, Snowdrift, there’s like, dozens of feet of sitting room, you don’t need to crowd ours.”

A small snort of disapproval made Bucky glance over his shoulder, taking in the man in a well worn suit and ruby tinted glasses, a white cane hanging as an elegant extension of his hand. “You always take the cute ones.”

Clint rolled his eyes. “How would you know, Murdock?”

“You take them,” Murdock said.

A grin broke out on Clint’s face again. “He does have a point.”

Completely unable to process the concept of anyone referring to him as ‘the cute one’, Bucky decided now was as good of a time as any to get into his outfit, and dedicated himself to the task at lightning speed. In addition to the candy cane striped pants— tights, leggings, whatever the hell, they were _snug_ — he had a dove gray tunic that was blissfully glitter free, though its single red sleeve was shiny. His vibranium arm was intentionally left out on display, which normally would have left him feeling a little anxious, but somehow the rest of the outfit made his arm seem downright dull.

“I was wondering if they’d be able to rope you into this.”

Bucky turned just as he was fitting his hat on.

“Colonel Rhodes,” he said, hoping the relief didn’t sound too evident in his tone. They could barely qualify as acquaintances, exchanging pleasantries when they passed each other for consultations at the Institute, but he was grateful to see a familiar face. Bucky didn’t know what the Colonel’s spinal/leg brace combo could possibly have in common with his arm, but they did always seem to be scheduled back to back.

The Colonel was already in his elf costume, a rather stylist swirl of gunmetal grey and metallic forest green. Given that his braces were worn over his clothes, it probably was just easier for him to arrive ready to go as opposed to changing on site.

“Please, we’re both pretty far removed from any chain of command. Call me Jim, or Rhodey,” he replied.

“Or, Sour Patch!” Clint yanked his bright purple velvet tunic over his head, sending his hair flying six different ways in an adorable fashion. “Gotta get in the habit with the Elf names, y’know, can’t be slipping up in front of the kiddos.”

“Sour Patch?” Bucky repeated.

Rhodey grimaced. “It was bequeathed to me. And that is absolutely all you are gonna get of that story.”

“Most people get one shoved onto them, because they drag their feet on picking one themselves,” Clint explained. Sometime in the last twenty seconds he had fitted special elf ears on that didn’t hide his hearing aids, but rather highlighted them with purple glittery pom poms. “Unless you’re awesome, like myself.”

Bucky couldn’t quite hide his amusement. “So what’s your brilliant Elf Name then?”

Clint reached into his locker, pulled out a shiny silver name tag and slapped it on his own chest with pride. Stamped in bold, easy to read block lettering was the name SLAY BELLE.

The laughter bubbled out of Bucky without warning, bright and clear, as if laughter were an easy commodity for him to come by and not some dim, just out of reach sensation. He couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed like that, and it felt as though something he didn’t even know he was carrying got lifted off of him. Beside him, Clint’s grin turned warmer.

“Yeah, sure, man steals a not so great drag queen name and suddenly he’s hi-larious,” Rhodey muttered, but he was smiling too. “C’mon, we’re gonna be late for line up.”

Line up was when the volunteers gathered to get their assignments for where they would be stationed in the maze. There were roughly a dozen of them, all decked out in brightly colored velvets and sequins, everyone in their own unique colors. Rhodey brought them over to a woman in a blue outfit with silver trim; though most of the women in the room were in fitted dresses, hers was more like a flight suit. She had short cropped, midnight blue hair, and burn scars on one side of her face and down her neck, disappearing under the collar of the suit. 

“You’re not the only new recruit this year,” Rhodey said, nodding towards her.

“Awesome, I love newbies, they’re all bright eyed and vaguely terrified,” Clint replied.

The woman eyed him, nonplussed. “Do I look terrified to you?”

Clint tilted his head, considering. “Maybe vaguely terrifyING, not ED,” he agreed. “I’m Clint, this delicate flower next to me is Bucky.”

Her gaze flicked over to Bucky without her head moving. She had an unnerving quality that reminded him of Nat, and he made a mental note to never ever let them hang out socially. “Nebula,” she replied shortly.

“Oh, we’re using our made up names,” Clint said under his breath, before smiling brightly. “Right, so I’m Slay Belle and this is—hmm, Twinkle Toes?”

Bucky blinked. “What?”

“No; yeah, no, tired. Oingo Boingo?”

“Uhh…”

“That reference is like thirty years too old for our target crowd,” Rhodey interjected.

“Right, right—got it! Snuggles!” Clint’s delight looked almost manic. “You’re Santa’s muscle, keeping all the minor shit off his desk, quiet but cuddly, deadly but domestic. _Coulson_!” The last word turned into a bellow, Clint wheeling around, on the hunt for someone. 

Nebula looked at Bucky with narrowed eyes. “You voluntarily spend time with this idiot?”

Most people probably would have pointed out they had just met the man in question, but Bucky just shrugged. “He’s my kind of idiot,” he said.

“...That is an acceptable point of view,” Nebula decided.

“Coulson, Coulson, I got Snuggles here, and we need door duty.” Clint was literally tugging on the sleeve of the man who must be Coulson. He was dressed in the solid black and resigned expression combination that was exclusively reserved for stage managers. “Door duty, pleeeeeaaase.”

“I honestly don’t know what’s given you the impression that you have any ability to alter the schedule,” Coulson said, his tone bland.

“A combination of stunning good looks and frankly obscene physical flexibility,” Clint replied without missing a beat.

“Both of which I have previously encountered, absorbed, and remain unmoved by.”

Moving at a brisk pace, a woman also clad in black with a headset and clipboard spoke as she slid past them. “Rhodes, got you in with Rodriguez, you’re in the room where it happens. Barton, you’re with Barnes, you got door duty.”

Rhodey groaned, Coulson sighed, and Clint broke out into some kind of bizarre victory dance.

~*~*~

Door Duty meant being stationed right outside of Santa’s Workshop, controlling the flow of when the next family came in. They only had one Santa on duty for these event nights, so they were occupying the anxious children who were vibrating with the pre-greeting excitement.

“Listen, Snuggles, all you gotta do is watch for the high sign from Sour Patch, I’ll take care of the gremlins,” Clint told him with a wink. “Just flash that megawatt smile of yours from time to time and we’ll be golden.”

And true to his word, Clint entertained the families as though he were born to it. He told corny jokes, and sang Christmas carols. He plucked ornaments off of trees for juggling, asking Bucky to toss in more, until there was a shining rainbow of color swirling through Clint’s hands. He talked to the kids, and to the parents, answering questions about Elf Life without skipping a beat.

“Contrary to popular belief, we don’t live on just candy, y’know. Some of us add chocolate and honey, y’know, to spice things up.”

“Penguins are the card sharks of the North Pole; do not ever play poker with a penguin, you will lose your shirt.”

“It used to be All Christmas Carols, All the Time, but then we installed Echoes all around the workshop and now I can ask Alexa to play Despacito whenever I want.”

One kid, upon seeing Clint, lit up like the Christmas trees she was surrounded by, and started signing, her hands a flurry of motion. He responded in kind, a silent but animated conversation flowing between them, until something she said made him grin and nod and drop down to one knee. When he stood back up he had a purple glitter star sticker on his cheek, like some kind of neon beauty mark. It was dopey and bright and perfect, and seeing it on Clint made Bucky’s chest feel tight and warm in a way he was entirely unprepared for.

He was so distracted by the foreignness of the sensation that Bucky didn’t even notice when the girl turned her attention to him, not until she waved both hands energetically in front of his face. As soon as he met her gaze she started signing again, her whole body engaged in speaking with him, and he felt an anxious sink in his stomach at being unable to communicate.

“She wants you to know, she thinks your arm is very pretty,” Clint translated, coming to the rescue yet again. “She likes the way it reflects all the Christmas lights. Like a kaleidoscope. Okay, that last part was me, but it’s what she means, if any eleven year old today knew what the hell a kaleidoscope was.”

“Thank you,” Bucky said, the reply automatic. He looked over to Clint, hoping he didn’t look too nervous. “How do…?”

Clint showed him the sign, the clean movement of his hand from his mouth down. “Make sure you make eye contact and smile when you say it,” he added. 

Feeling disproportionally self-conscious for such a simple gesture, Bucky managed what felt like a genuine smile as he thanked the girl. She beamed back at him.

“She wants to know if you want a sticker too,” Clint said. “Say yes to the sticker, Snuggles.”

“Ah, yes?” Bucky nodded once. He knelt down like Clint had, but rather than putting anything on his face, the girl pulled a large red star from her pocket and carefully pressed it to the center of the shoulder of his arm prosthetic. 

“Oh yeah, that is definitely part of the uniform from now on,” Clint said approvingly.

The door to Santa’s workshop creaked open and Rhodey peaked his head out. “Everything okay, I thought… Oh. Oh here we go, Maya’s here with the good stuff.” Rhodey opened the door wide to step into the doorway, and signed a greeting to the girl. It was simple and far slower than how Clint spoke, but it clearly delighted her. She bounced forward, her mother following closely, who took over translation duty as they disappeared into the structure. No one else currently stood in line, leaving Bucky and Clint alone.

“So Maya’s the sticker supplier in these parts, huh?” Bucky asked after a moment.

Clint nodded, solemn. “Stay on her good side, she’ll keep you in stars and snowflakes for the whole month. Daniel’s our candy cane guy, but he’s twitchy, one wrong look and he’ll cut you off.”

“Any chance of scoring some gingerbread?” 

Clint whistled low. “Jesus, Sarge, going for the hard stuff on your first shift?”

Bucky shrugged. “I could always see what’s available in the South Pole…”

Clint closed the distance between them, grabbing Bucky by his forearms. “Don’t you dare, they cut their gingerbread with graham cracker crumbles, that shit will kill you!” he whispered theatrically.

Bucky couldn’t hide his smile any longer, not with the way that Clint was so close, with his hands so warm, gripping onto flesh and machine with the exact same fervor, as though there were no differences between them. It had taken Steve weeks to be able to touch the new arm without some kind of involuntary twitch. Even Natasaha, the first time she brushed against it unknowing, had shied away. But now there was this guy; this beautiful, bright, goofball of a man that just accepted a metal arm the way other people would accept a new haircut and made Bucky feel relaxed in a way he hadn’t in years.

All of which he desperately wanted to figure out a way to say out loud, but the sound of another family making their way through the Swirly Twirly Gumdrops had them both move back to their posts.

~*~*~

The first night was over, and no one had died, passed out, or cried. And by no one, Bucky meant himself. Because a couple of babies had proven their lung capacity with wailing, definitely had solid potential futures in heavy metal bands, and Geoffry had gotten so excited in the anticipation of meeting Mr. Sandy Claws that he almost hyperventilated, but assurances were made that this was nothing new. Bucky had played Santa’s Bouncer to great success, helping families through the door, making sure strollers and wheelchairs didn’t get caught on garland, finding quiet smiles for the nervous kids and mock-stern looks for the loud ones.

He ended the night with the red star sticker, two candy canes, a handful of squished hershey kisses, and a hand cut paper snowflake. Clint assured him it was quite the first night haul.

“If you want to properly gloat over your spoils, you could come with to the bar,” Clint said. He was hanging his costume up in the locker, but he still had his elf ears on, purple pom poms swinging with every slight nod of his head. “There’s a hole in the wall that’s got piss on tap but apparently it’s the only place Murdock drinks, so we humor him.”

Bucky lingered over the clothing in his locker, using it to buy him a moment of thought. To his utter shock, his first impulse had been to say yes; yes to going to a crowded bar, with people he barely knew, to a place he hadn’t staked out beforehand to know all the exit routes. The fact he was even considering it was both exhilarating and terrifying.

“I really can’t tonight,” he finally admitted. He didn’t trust himself to be able to handle quite so much newness in one night, no matter how inviting the company felt. Not to mention Steve would have kittens over the whole thing.

Although Clint covered his disappointment quickly and smoothly, Bucky still managed to catch a bit of pout, and that somehow made him feel better.

“But now that I know it’s a thing, maybe next week?” Bucky added.

Clint latched on immediately, with no attempts to hide his enthusiasm. “Oh, now I don’t deal on maybes, now that I see an opening, I will definitely con you into it.”

Feeling bold, Bucky replied, “I look forward to seeing your persuasion tactics.”

He promptly turned and headed for the door, just in case it landed with a thud. But behind him Clint’s laugh rang out like a bell.

“Challenge accepted!” Clint called after him, and the heat it brought to Bucky’s face kept him warm the whole subway ride home.

~*~*~

Waiting until the day of Elf duty was intentional.

It was strategy.

Because Bucky loved Steve like a brother, but he hated when Steve decided to play at being his mother. He had to minimize the amount of fretting for the sake of all parties involved. Killing his best friend because of coddling wouldn’t fly too well in court, he assumed. Plus he would probably regret it at some point.

So the news of Bucky’s intentions to go out to a bar with people Steve didn’t know… That got dropped at the last possible moment. 

“Hey, do you think you’ll make it back in time to catch Merry Christmas Charlie Brown on PBS, or should I DVR it?” Steve asked, head bowed over his sketchbook.

Bucky paused mid step. He hadn’t been tip toeing through the living room, but it had been close enough.

“Uh, let’s save it for tomorrow,” he said slowly. “I’m actually going out. After.”

Steve’s head whipped up. “Out?”

“Out.”

“...Like on a walk?”

Bucky resisted the urge to groan, but only just. “The I’m So Dense Routine was cute when you used it to get out of trouble with our superior officer, but this is just sad.”

“Sorry, no, I just—let me start again.” Steve set his sketchpad aside and stood up to face him. “So you’re going out after?”

“Some of the volunteers go out after,” Bucky explained. “I got invited, so I’m gonna check it out.”

The battle of pride and concern playing so openly on Steve’s face made Bucky want to hide in his hoodie out of embarrassment. 

“That’s—”

“Stop.”

“It’s just very—”

“No really, shut up.”

Steve’s scowl held no heat with the way his lips upturned in a smile. “You haven’t let me get three words out.”

“Yeah, cause if you actually finish that sentence, I’m gonna vomit all over your finely pressed khakis,” Bucky deadpanned.

The diversion worked; Steve blinked and looked down at his pants. “What’s wrong with khaki?”

“Jesus, Stevie, just wear jeans like a regular twenty something, would it kill you?” Bucky shouldered the gym bag that held his costume. “I gotta go catch the train, I need you to not freak out on me about this.”

Steve held his hands up in surrender. “No freaking out. Scout’s honor.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “You were never a boy scout.”

“And yet, people always believe me when I say that,” Steve said mildly. He was moving back to the couch, almost succeeding in looking casual about it. “Just—take care, alright?”

Bucky opened his mouth to snark back, but instead a soft, “Yeah, okay,” came out instead.

Sometimes it was nice, knowing someone cared enough to worry.

~*~*~

Each week elves would rotate on their positions; it was rare for any of the volunteers to stay stuck in the same location or paired with the same partner. So when Maria went down the list and Bucky and Clint were working together again, this time staffing Santa inside the workshop, Bucky couldn’t help but look next to him, the silent question plain on his face.

If Clint’s eyebrow waggles were any indication, this had been no random happenstance. 

Then Coulson announced the night’s Santa was Odin Alfodr, and the entire line of velvet smocked, glitter crusted elves looked ready to murder Clint where he stood. The juxtaposition would have been hilarious if Bucky hadn’t been legitimately concerned for Clint’s well being.

“Odin’s great—gruff, but great. But he’s not the reason everyone would slit my throat without reservation,” Clint explained cheerfully as they made their way to the workshop. “He’s the only Santa who has a Mrs. Claus that comes with. And Frigga is simply The Best. Better than all the rest. Better than anyone. Anyone I ever met.”

Bucky raised a brow skeptically. “So what you’re saying is, she’s the best? Or is this a hint that I’m about to meet Tina Turner?”

“I can’t help it if the iconic Ms. Turner speaks my truth. She leads, I am but a humble follower.”

The workshop was already lit up by the time they entered, the combination of Christmas lights and LED candles creating a warm glow. As temporary sets went, it managed to have a pretty, homey charm to it despite being made out of mostly cardboard.

“I could try to explain to you the wonder that is Frigga Alfodr, but, seriously, words will pale to the reality of the experience,” Clint added. 

“...So, she feeds us?” Bucky guessed.

Clint looked insulted. “Trying to boil down the warmth, good cheer, and genuine caring in that woman’s every breath down to something as simple as ‘she feeds us’ is a travesty of epic proportions. Except, okay, yeah, she _totally_ feeds us.”

~*~*~

“That was…”

“Right? I told you!”

“She is…”

“Oh I know.”

“It’d be wrong to tell my mom right before Christmas that I have a new mom now, right? That’d be rude.”

When Clint laughed, his breath fogged in the winter night air, obscuring his face as they stood waiting for the light to change. His laughter came out almost as a bark, bright and full bodied, and in the span of two nights, Bucky was already becoming addicted to the sound. 

When they had been getting changed after their shift, Clint had pretty intentionally dawdled in getting back into his civilian clothes. Considering it meant they got to walk together to the bar, Bucky couldn’t find a reason to complain. He was riding high on the sugar and sweet nature Frigga had brought to the workshop, on her gentle questions and warm smiles, on her immediate personal investment not just in every child, but in every person she met. He had almost forgotten what it was like, to have someone doting on him and not be resentful of it. 

“Oh, but you are a special heart,” Frigga had said after less than five minutes together. She had laid both her hands on Buck’s forearms, where they sat crossed over his chest, and with a single warm squeeze she seemed to impart her calm and grace over to him. “Your nature may be quiet but your light is as a beacon in the fog. Never doubt your decency and good cheer, my child.”

“Sure, there’s all that, but pretty biceps, gorgeous eyes, and excellent bone structure, he’s got those too,” Clint had added with an unrepentant grin.

“Yes, well, there’s nothing wrong with acknowledging the physical blessings as well as the mental,” Frigga had conceded with a puckish smile of her own. 

“Must you read the fate and fortune of every wayward soul we stumble across, my wife?” Odin had grumbled from his chair.

Frigga had waved him off without a sideways glance. “A small stumble in the road of our life does not a wayward path make, husband. The trouble lies in when our nose is too close to the ground to discern the difference, and that is when wise counsel and fresh eyes prove most valuable.”

Then she had pulled cookies from secret pockets in her dress, and the random, almost spiritual encounter had ended with the taste of brown butter and powdered sugar. 

The flavor seemed to linger even now, hours later, as they began to cross the slushy street to their dive bar destination. “I dunno how you managed to pull the strings to get us on that assignment, but, really, if the rest of the crew doesn’t kill us at the bar, I’ll have to thank you,” Bucky said.

“Do I get to offer suggestions for this thanks?” Clint asked. “Cause, I respond well to all five love languages, but I also think it’s real easy to blend Physical Touch and Acts of Service.”

The small patch of ice in the crosswalk had nothing to do with why Bucky’s knees nearly buckled out from under him, but he could be under oath in a court of law and he would still never admit it.

“Aw, legs, no!” Clint’s arms shot out, wrapping around Bucky’s middle to keep him upright. He held on as he directed them to the sidewalk, one arm drawing Bucky snugly against his side. His grip loosened when they were out of the street but it lingered, a phantom against the small of Bucky’s back. “Too much? I have been known— it’s been mentioned to me, Tasha loves to point out, I have a habit of seeing a line and vaulting right over it. I usually land somewhere to the side with my foot firmly in my mouth.”

The smile was still on Clint’s face, but it was edged with a nervousness now; the ruddy blush across his cheeks and nose didn’t seem like it was just coming from the cold. Feeling a rush of confidence, Bucky leaned into Clint’s side, sliding his own arm around the taller man’s back. “I like Gifts and Quality Time. So buy me a beer.”

Clint blinked, glancing down at the rapidly diminishing space between them, and looked back up again with a delighted laugh. “Awesome.”

~*~*~

Bucky couldn’t see Natasha, not with his hoodie pulled so far down, but he felt her join him on the empty side of his bed. Instinctively he turned away from her, literally giving her a cold shoulder of his metal arm, but she didn’t seem to mind.

“So, we gonna talk or are you gonna make me guess?” she asked after several brutally long moments of silence. After waiting through a few more, she added, “Rogers said you went out with some new friends.”

Bucky closed his eyes and considered pulling a pillow over his face. Or possibly a plastic bag.

From the other side of the bed, he heard Natasha release a small breath. “You stayed for a second beer.”

“I stayed for a goddamn second beer,” Bucky groaned. He finally rolled onto his back, but he still couldn’t manage to meet Natasha’s gaze; he settled for staring up at the ceiling instead. “I was having… a good time,” he added, his voice going soft and exhausted. “There’s this— this beautiful fella that's just bright and warm and goofy and all the things I ain’t, but he looks at me like I _am_ those things and, Nat, I was having a really good time…”

“Until you weren’t,” she finished, gentle and without judgment.

“...Until I wasn’t. Yeah.”

The first beer had been so easy. The volunteers were all smashed into high seats along a string of tables pulled together, but Bucky and Clint had taken up at one end, and initially everyone else seemed to sort of fade into the background. They laughed, and they talked, and Clint kept pulling a seemingly endless supply of Frigga’s cookies out of different pockets of his coat, and their knees kept bumping together under the table as others squeezed past them to get to the bar, and their shoulders kept pressing together for no other reason than they wanted to. When Clint offered to buy him a second beer, (“One beer is just a common courtesy, but a second beer, a second beer reveals my dastardly intentions,”) Bucky found himself saying yes without considering it.

He didn’t think about the way the air in the bar was feeling too hot or how now that someone was regularly feeding the jukebox, it was becoming too loud. He didn’t think about how everyone in the volunteer crowd would start to want to find ways to include him into conversations he didn’t really want to be in, or about the fact that everyone seemed to love Clint and were going to start demanding his attention. Clint couldn’t manage chatting with anyone over the obnoxious music unless he was right next to them, so he kept wandering around to different spots of the table whenever someone shouted his name loud enough. 

Bucky hadn’t recognized the tension building in his chest until it was already too tight, hadn’t acknowledged the knot of anxiety twisting low in his gut. There had been a time, before the war, before the injury, when he had always been the last one to close out a party, where his social battery had felt nearly limitless. And every once and awhile, in a fit of frustration or stubbornness or in this case good old fashioned optimism, he would try to reclaim just a bit of it. He didn’t need to be out until 3am, he just wanted to be able to make it through more than an hour without completely freaking out.

In the two years since he got back stateside, Bucky had never made it through a second beer. 

It crept up slowly. Clint’s attempts to guess Nebula’s real name (“Nancy! Natalie! Nanette! Give me something, does it involve an umlaut?”) went from amusing to annoying. Bucky became convinced that the smiles Clint beamed his way were the same he was sending to Murdock and Coulson, not special and significant, just flirty. He was a charity case, a burden; Clint felt sorry for him, Clint felt pity for him, Clint just wanted to be nice but he didn’t really want to spend all his time with Bucky, he was probably glad Yo-Yo kept calling him over to the other side of the table, he looked relieved to be somewhere else, he looked happier laughing with Matt rather than when he had been laughing before…

Bucky had stood so abruptly his chair knocked back, making a terrible shrieking sound on the linoleum. The impulse to apologize was there, with Rhodey’s concerned gaze falling on him, but his throat felt so tight and raw he didn’t trust himself to say it. He only scowled, shoving his hands firmly into the pockets of his coat to hide the way they were shaking as he made his way to the door.

“Hey, hey where’s the fire?” Clint had appeared at his side, a beer in his hand and several cocktail umbrellas stacked up behind one ear. It looked ridiculous and adorable and it only made Bucky more miserable to realize someone else had put them there.

“I’m out,” Bucky had said, barely grinding the words out. “Gotta go.”

If he had been thinking straight, he would have recognized the disappointment on Clint’s face. He could see it in the aftermath, in a way he couldn’t at the time. “Oh. Okay, lemme just grab my coat—“

“No. Stay. You’re enjoying yourself,” Bucky said.

“I can walk you to the station—“ One of Clint’s arms reached out, his hand ghosting over the small of Bucky’s back like it had out on the sidewalk. It should have been reassuring, but in that moment, so frazzled, Bucky had flinched away. 

The moment seemed to hang, an uncomfortable eternity suspended between the two of them. Bucky’s jaw felt rusted and locked, and even the open, confused hurt on Clint’s face couldn’t manage to pull it open. He just looked away, shaking his head as he pushed out into the winter air.

Natasha sat patiently as Bucky recounted it all, in fits and starts. She let him work it out loud, let him reflect on when the anxiety attack started and what possibly triggered it. She even let him beat himself up, just a little bit, right there at the end.

“How can my fucked up brain register the fact that he looked like I kicked his puppy and yet still be convinced he has zero interest in me because I’ve already become a horrific burden to him?” Bucky asked.

He closed his eyes as he felt Natasha’s fingers begin to gently card through his hair. At some point he had ended up resting his cheek against her thigh, but he couldn’t remember making the move. 

“You really like this fella of yours, don’t you?” she asked.

He swallowed. “Yeah. Not that it matters now.”

For a moment the only sound in the room was their breathing, as Natasha braided his hair in her lap. She undid and rebraided it several times before she spoke, the movements acting as a balm to his battered nerves.

“Your anxiety, your fears… these are pieces of you. Same as your dry humor and your protective streak. Same as this,” she tapped her nails lightly against his left breast bone, “And this.” She tapped once against the metal plates of his shoulder. “Anyone worth your time is going to know that, and they’re going to want it all. We make space for the people important to us. As long as you give us the chance.”

Bucky let her words wash over him, and felt the familiar tight knot in his chest begin to loosen for the first time in days.

“You think he still wants that chance?” he asked.

“I think the only way to know for sure is to ask,” she replied. “Maybe start with, I’m sorry.” As she said the phrase she brought one hand up in a closed fist, thumb up, and rotated her hand in a clockwise circle over her heart. “Make sure to look properly ashamed of yourself when you say it.”

Bucky sat up on the bed, one half of his hair still tangled in a waterfall braid. “Since when do you know sign language?”

“One day you’ll learn to stop asking questions, Barnes, and accept my status as an International Woman of Mystery. Now show me your ashamed face.”

~*~*~

Christmas Eve.

It was his last shot.

The Tuesday before Bucky had gotten to Gimbel’s almost half an hour early to try and get a moment alone with Clint, wound up so tight he was surprised the plates of his arm hadn’t been vibrating. But when Rhodey had shown up, he had a sympathetic expression.

“He ain’t coming tonight—family thing,” Rhodey explained. “You alright to be here, Barnes?”

Bucky had confirmed he was, but during line up Coulson had taken one look at him and had a quiet conference with Maria off to the side. Bucky spent the night working coat check, and Yo-Yo let him be the one to match the claim tickets while she interacted with the families. He didn’t have the heart to argue for more responsibility that night. The other volunteers made a point of chatting with him afterward, confirming no hard feelings around last week’s meltdown, and Murdock even asked if he would come out again, but no one was surprised when he declined.

Now all that was left was the hours of 9am to 12pm on Christmas Eve, a special day time visitation. Apparently it was usually the slowest of the events, but more than a few of the families that had come through on other nights would come again. The Carbonell Institute had a “special emissary of Santa’s” that was manning the workshop, and Bucky saw stagehands wheeling velvet sacks full of presents towards the space when he raced by towards the locker room.

The plan had been to get in early again, but a water main break, and two different train delays meant Bucky wasn’t even going to be on time for the start of the event. He nearly ran face first into Maria Hill, sending her clipboard flying as she stumbled back. “You’re— “

“I am very much aware!” Bucky shouted over his shoulder. “Three minutes!”

“You’re at the Magic Tree!” Maria shouted back.

The Magic Tree was a spot relatively early in the maze, a way station to entertain kids waiting in long lines. It was more important for the regular Gimbel’s crowd, when the visit to Santa could take the better part of two hours. With the shorter lines, kids rarely lingered at the Magic Tree, if they even bothered to look inside the trunk to see the mirrored light display at all. Volunteers agreed it was, by far, the most boring assignment available. 

Bucky had never been so happy for boring.

When he came skidding through the first length of the maze to his station, he was still pulling on the last pieces of his costume, breathless and rumpled. He turned the corner and saw the Magic Tree, covered in glittery snow and full of icy white twinkle lights, but didn’t see any companion, and he felt his heart sink. He had been so sure someone was taking pity on him, he had been convinced he would get his chance…

“Y’know, I think those velvet booties are on inside out.”

Bucky let out a breath, a thrill running through him. “Are you… in the tree?”

Something shifted within the upper branches and a small flurry of artificial snow rained down on Bucky’s head. Suddenly Clint was hanging from one of the branches by his knees upside down, his purple tunic flying down to cover his face until he pushed it back with his arms. 

“Technically there’s no rule against this,” he said in way of defense, attempting to shove the ends of his tunic into his leggings.

“If I ask Coulson, will he say the same thing?” Bucky asked. Despite all his earnest intentions, he was so relieved that Clint was talking to him, he couldn’t help but fall into the already familiar rhythm of banter.

“Coulson will have many things to say, all with the flavor of disappointment and regret.” Clint twisted his head, trying to look in the direction of Bucky’s face. Given that his head was at the height of Bucky’s knees, it wasn’t going smoothly. “We don’t want to bring that into our circle, do we?”

“Depends,” Bucky said slowly. “I have a few regrets. I’d like to fix them, though, If I can.” He finished with the sign for _I’m sorry_ Natasha had taught him, complete with the very best face of contrition he could manage.

Clint’s eyes widened and he tumbled out of the tree with all of the grace of a newborn giraffe, but he righted himself quickly, snow flying as he bounced up onto his feet. “Picked up a new hobby since we last met?” he asked. His hands moved through the signs while he spoke, clear and slow.

“Very slowly,” Bucky confirmed, before adding in sign, _Sorry I was an asshole_

Clint’s expression went soft. “You’re not an asshole. I’m…”

The sounds of an incoming family made Bucky flush and Clint grimace, but they both dutifully turned towards the newcomers with their best smiles to greet the kids to the North Pole. And so it went for the next few hours, with visitors coming in clumps, often with just enough of a gap between them to lull Bucky into a false sense of a reprieve. They would have a moment alone, and Bucky would get to share a look with Clint’s brilliantly blue eyes, or he would get caught staring at the glitter sparkling in Clint’s hair, or his hand would brush Clint’s when they both went to grab the same icicle that fell off the Tree, and he would just get lost in the wonder of this man. And just when he’d pluck up the courage to say more, to do anything, another family would trundle through and duty called.

Finally the Gimbel’s clock struck out 11:45am, and Bucky knew their time was running short. He finished directing a family towards the next point in the maze, and turned with every intention to speak, but Clint beat him to it.

“Okay, so, here’s the deal. Because it’s Christmas, and at Christmas you tell the truth. Or something.” Clint closed the distance between them, but stopped short of actually reaching out. “I like you. But if you don’t like me, or if you aren’t ready, or if I’m just too much fine specimen— sorry, that’s me being too much, I’m a lot, if you don’t want that, I get it, I just… Thought you should know. Y’know?”

The wave of affection that crested felt like it could send Bucky to his knees. His hands itched to reach out to Clint and pull him in close, but instead they nervously yanked his hat off his hair, giving him something to wring. “I’m a mess, doll,” he exhaled. “Do you really want that?”

A blindingly sweet smile came to Clint’s lips. One of his legs reared back, giving the trunk of the Magic Tree a swift kick, and, along with the slurry of fake snow, a purple velvet ribbon came tumbling from one of the taller branches. Attached to the ribbon, a sprig of mistletoe now dangled over their heads. “Hell yes I do.”

With a soft, disbelieving laugh Bucky finally allowed one of his hands to snag the back of Clint’s neck, pulling his mouth down so they could meet. Clint’s lips tasted of peppermint and chocolate, but it was the warmth of his kiss, the gentleness of his hands cupping Bucky’s jaw, that made Bucky’s head spin and his knees go wobbly. Even after the kiss ended they lingered, their foreheads lightly meeting as they struggled to catch their breath.

Finally Bucky looked up at the mistletoe in astonishment. “...That’s why you were in the tree?”

Clint grinned. “Just in cases.”

**Author's Note:**

> Dear every Christmas movie I've ever watched, please forgive me for the amount of shameless stealing I did.
> 
> PS, I'm that human who barely understands how tumblr works, but feel free to [say hi!](https://bella-dahlia.tumblr.com/)


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